


Ancora (Resta Con Me)

by echoist



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echoist/pseuds/echoist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the world ended and began again, the Shitennou seemed content to remain apart from it. But if memories could keep Endymion and Serenity alive, what about those that remember the Shitennou?  (Post-canon, pre-special act)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ancora (Resta Con Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from works by Ludovico Einaudi.

  


Motoki stirred in his sleep and rolled over, fingers sweeping along the mattress. He frowned at the space, fingertips smooth and unobstructed in their path. He'd grown accustomed to a strange sort of warmth, lately – the sort that stole your blankets and whose feet were always cold. The sort whose breath smelled like pickled cat food in the morning. The sort you kissed, anyway.

He opened one eye, just a crack, enough to see the pale morning light creeping along the sill. The sheets were rumpled, one corner pulled entirely off the mat. He smiled and reached out to fix it. “You can't even sleep in a bed properly, can you?” he called out, hoping Nephrite was already making breakfast. Then again, the thought of the other man using _anything_ in the kitchen was slightly terrifying and he threw the covers back with some alarm.

No smoke drifted lazily through the tiny apartment, no scent of fresh morning tea grown heavy on the air. No sound, except the birds, chirruping timidly outside. Motoki padded along the floor in bare feet, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A brief inspection found an empty kitchenette, a vacant bathroom. He unlocked the door to the studio and peered out, hair sticking up in all directions.

Not a sound. The lights, disappointingly dim.

“Where is that idiot?” he muttered, turning around in place. “Ah, well,” he continued, conversing with himself in the way of long-standing habits. “It's your own fault if you miss breakfast.”

He made sardine omelets, then remembered how much he hated fish in the morning. He sat at the table, watching the eggs congeal, not tasting a thing. Nothing had broken in the last hour and everything seemed just slightly out of frame.

It was beautiful day, not a cloud; the wind moving high and fast. No one ever wanted to stay indoors and sing karaoke on a day like today. He sat at the desk and waited, and waited. Makoto and the others were conspicuous in their absence. Kamekichi grumbled and retreated beneath his shell, unmoving.

“Too quiet,” Motoki opined softly. The silence had weight, it perched on his shoulder and threw him off balance. “It's all right, I'm sure he's just out. Doing – something. You know, whatever it is that he .. does.” Motoki nodded to himself. “I'm not paying you for time you're not here, you know!” he shouted, hearing it tumble and fall flat across sound-proofed walls.

He lay down alone when his evening tea grew cold. The clock displayed the late hour, as if to taunt. Curled up around a pillow, Motoki wondered why the bed felt so large. It had always seemed the perfect size, before. He tossed, he turned. He didn't sleep. He began to think he knew what it meant to fret.

When the dawn cracked, garish and obscene, he felt it in his bones. Nothing was broken; everything in its right place. He tugged the sheet back from the corner, but the bed remained empty. He sat up, hurled a pillow at a picture on the wall, looking for an easy target. The frame swayed loosely back and forth before clattering to the floor. It was only plastic; it didn't know to break. Motoki lay back against the disheveled mattress and watched the motes of dust drift past in silence.

He thought about the night he came home bruised, beaten soundly on all fronts. Scrapes along both arms and a gash across his cheek, trying to hold an unwanted truth in hands still shaking. Nephrite's face had changed, seeing him. He'd flipped off the sign, locked the doors and pushed him, ungently, toward the bathroom sink. Motoki watched the water in the basin change color as Nephrite soaked the cloth again and again, wiping the dust and gravel from his wounds. He worked quickly, efficiently. His hands did not linger.

Motoki rolled the broken charm between his fingers, pressing the jagged point into his palm. What had made him think he could change anyone's luck? He'd never had any of his own to spare. Nephrite tugged at the string, pulling the ruined charm away.

“Stop that,” he murmured, holding Motoki's hands up to the light. “You could cut yourself.” Motoki just shrugged, watching his reflection ripple and shift in the muddied water.

“Who are you, anyway?” Motoki asked without looking up.

“You know who I am,” Nephrite answered, rummaging around in the drawer for a salve.

“No, I don't!” Motoki shouted. He slid off the counter top, surprised by the sound of his own voice resonant in the tiny space. Nephrite loomed over him, a solid wall of stoic unconcern. It was infuriating. “I don't know anything!” Motoki fumed, remembering the wild flash of anger the first time they'd met. It had coiled in his stomach, hot and hissing. Anger was tactile, so much easier to fall back on than the sudden, empty shock of fear. Anger was reliable, anchored - where panic only slipped through his fingers in a rush to leave him breathless and vulnerable.

Nephrite closed the drawer, boxing him in against the sink. He lifted Motoki's arm instead of responding, angling it towards the light. His fingers spread the cooling salve across a field of ragged scrapes. Motoki winced as the flood of pain cast the room in sharp relief. “You haven't asked me what happened,” he forced out through gritted teeth.

Nephrite's hands slowed, sliding warm and slick across pain-sensitized skin. Motoki struggled to focus when every atom of his attention rested beneath those hands, flaring and bursting like a field of flashbulbs at every stroke. It was humiliating. It didn't even make sense. “I don't need to ask,” Nephrite said, reaching behind Motoki for a plaster.

“Right, because you don't care,” Motoki replied dryly, staring past Nephrite to an ugly stain across the tile.

“Because it was inevitable,” Nephrite corrected, bending over his arm. Motoki thought he heard a sigh rise up, bitter and muffled. “Motoki-kun - people like that can only draw you into their troubles.”

“People like who?” Motoki asked, a wary edge bolstering his words. Makoto might have shocked him with her revelation, but he'd be damned if he heard this lousy excuse for a shopboy say anything against her character.

“Those who live only to fight other's battles,” Nephrite answered, applying another plaster. A line of turtles marched across Motoki's forearm, their vivid blues and greens incongruous against the faded yellow tiles, the sink full of blood and gravel. “The sort of soldiers who sacrifice their own safety without a thought for themselves or the collateral damage. Like your Jupiter. Like me.”

“I don't know anything about you,” Motoki responded blankly. Somehow, he wasn't surprised that Nephrite knew Makoto's secret. He was nothing _but_ secrets, just shadows strung together in a line, mimicking the shape of a man.Nephrite straightened, smoothing out the last bandage. His fingers traced the curve of Motoki's jaw, tilting his head slightly toward the light. Motoki swallowed as his fingers found the shallow cut and explored its length. It was clinical, perfunctory, and the blood rushed to his cheeks all the same.

“There's nothing to tell,” Nephrite asserted after a lengthy pause. He worked a tiny spot of salve into the wound and leaned back, surveying his work.

“Liar,” Motoki argued. “Everyone has a story. Even me, and I'm the least interesting person I know.”

Nephrite scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “You're interesting enough,” he offered, one corner of his mouth teasing a smile.

“How would you know? You've never asked me anything!” Motoki's voice rose as he jabbed a finger at Nephrite's chest. He knew he shouldn't press, should just shut up and take himself off to bed, but the words kept tumbling out. “You just crashed into me and never left and now you're – now -”

“Now I'm _what_?” Nephrite asked, shifting his weight forward. He gripped the counter to either side of Motoki as he stammered his way into silence. “Patching you up in your own bathroom after a bad night out?” Motoki had the grace to look somewhat abashed. “I know you despite yourself, Motoki-kun. I know why you keep this place open at all hours. I know why you take in strays and don't ask questions. I don't need to ask them of you because you're an open book.”

“So why don't I get to know you, eh?” Motoki fired back. “You can't just invade my life and then tell me to stay away from you.”

“I never asked you to stay away from me,” Nephrite growled. His eyes searched Motoki's face, widening a little at something he found there. He bit his lip, leaning in with a resigned sigh until his forehead rested lightly against Motoki's brow. “I just told you you'd get hurt.”

“I don't care about that,” Motoki whispered, wondering just when reality had slipped sideways and left him with an entirely new set of rules to navigate. This was his Neph-kichi, after all, his good luck charm; the one he'd found when he wasn't looking and kept because everything just seemed _better_ with him than without.

“You should care,” Nephrite responded, sliding his hands around Motoki's wrists. “This war is going to get a lot worse before it's over, and I can't keep you safe.”

“But you'll - stay?” Motoki asked, hesitant. Makoto had been quite clear; she would fight her battles alone. They'd both told him to stay out of the fight, but he'd been sitting this particular fence too long, and Nephrite hadn't treated him like a child. He'd cleaned him up, tended his wounds instead of walking away. His hands were still warm on Motoki's skin and he could hear Nephrite's heart beating just inches from his own. _Say yes_.

“Until you get rid of me,” he promised, brushing his lips lightly across Motoki's cheek. It was a liberty, he knew, but he thought Motoki could indulge him this small thing. To his surprise, Motoki turned into the kiss, his lips seeking out Nephrite's and opening beneath them. A shudder ran through his body as Nephrite deepened the contact, exploring his mouth with his tongue. His fingers gripped Motoki's wrists hard enough to bruise but his lips were soft and easy and Motoki thought, maybe, he might have whimpered against them just a little.

_I know you._ Nephrite slid his knee between Motoki's legs, nudging them apart. Motoki's breath caught, and he pushed back against the sink. He was hemmed in on all sides, leaving him nowhere to go. And he didn't want to go anywhere, not really; he wanted to give into this and see where it might lead but it was new and disorienting and utterly terrifying. Nephrite seemed to read the conflict in the lines of his body and backed away a pace.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, eyes rooted to the filthy tiles below. “I shouldn't have – it was -”

“Perfect?” Motoki finished, an awkward smile shaping his lips as Nephrite offered “presumptuous,” instead. “I like my answer better,” Motoki continued, stepping in to close the small distance Nephrite had put between them.

They hadn't made love that night (it was morning before they got around to it, wrapped around one another in the sheets as the rain drummed softly on the roof and the clouds kept the dawn far and distant), but Motoki remembered every moment they'd passed together. He traced over them in his mind, following their shape in the air with his fingers. He could have laid there for hours, unmoving, if the alarm hadn't sounded, shrill and utterly redundant. He was still awake. The world hadn't ended, not yet, and each minute that ticked past reminded him he still had a place to occupy in it. The alarm sounded again and he hurled the tiny box at the wall, feeling a triumphant emptiness when it smashed across the plaster.

He rose from the mat and stumbled into the kitchen, avoiding the tiny cogs and gears in his path. Kamekichi, at least, still depended on him. He wondered, sometimes, who would take care of the turtle after he was gone. Turtles could live for a hundred and fifty, two hundred years if they were lucky. Humans counted seventy-five a lengthy stay. He cleaned Kamekichi's tank with furious efficiency, pressing his hands against the counter top instead of breaking the glass. It was in him now, a desire to tear, to rend; to shatter. Externally directed or internal, it didn't matter, so long as something broke beyond repair.

How could he leave without saying a word? It was unthinkable. It was insulting. It was a kick in the gut and a knife alongside. _You were supposed to stay,_ he thought, furiously. If he'd never met Nephrite, he never would have known the difference, but he _had_ , and he _did_ , and nothing would ever look quite the same again.He didn't know if he was angrier for the finding, or the leaving.Motoki seized the cleaning brush from the counter and hurled it at the door -

Right as it opened. A key turned hesitantly in the lock; the algae-covered bristles made contact with a figure as it paused, uncertain in the doorway. The silhouette grunted, glancing down at the offending object where it rested in the entryway. Motoki knew that sound, had heard it and provoked it more times than he could count.

“You bastard!” Motoki wanted to cry out. “You insufferable idiot!” But he said neither of these things. Instead, he left the turtle to ramble across the kitchen and threw himself at the figure in the doorway, dragging him in and slamming the door shut behind. Motoki wrapped his arms around him and squeezed, holding on as if some unknown tide might draw him away again.

It was a moment before Nephrite's arms rose to encircle him in return, a moment that stretched and multiplied as Motoki waited, afraid. “Neph-kichi?” he asked, unable to speak above a whisper. Familiar fingers carded through his hair, a familiar voice spoke, rough and hollow.

“You remembered me.”

Motoki pulled away, hands lingering on Nephrite's shoulders while he surveyed the chaos in the flat with a look of confusion. “Of course I _remembered_ you,” Motoki said petulantly, drawing Nephrite's attention back down. “What kind of thing is that to say to someone?”

“An important thing,” Nephrite insisted. His hand slid down from Motoki's hair to stroke his jaw. “You have no idea just how important.” Motoki's stomach clenched as he realised that the war – the great war he'd feared in the dark, uncertain hours of the night, the war he'd dreaded and held this small thing close as a talisman against the worst – the war was over. They'd come through the other side, and he hadn't even known.

“Oh,” he whispered, feeling useless and suddenly very small. Nephrite lifted his chin when he tried to turn his gaze away, held his focus front and center. No one had ever simply _looked_ at him the way Nephrite did; no one had ever demanded his complete attention in return.

“Listen to me,” he asked, and Motoki did. “This world has a way of pruning the branches that won't bear fruit,” Nephrite said, lips halfway to an uncertain smile. “A general without his army is less than useless, even in peacetime.”

“I don't understand,” Motoki began, his voice sounding thick and foreign in his own ears.

“Yes, you do,” Nephrite corrected him. “If you hadn't still wanted me here, I would have faded away. Just a wrinkle. A smudge on the page.”

Motoki ducked his head, inexplicably embarrassed. He still didn't know any of the things about Nephrite you were supposed to know about a lover; where he grew up, what his parents were like, if he'd gone to university, or what he studied. He didn't even know his full name – but there were things Motoki did know, like the tune he whistled when he was bored, and thought no one could hear. The tiny freckles scattered like confetti across his shoulders, or how much he hated the neighborhood cats. The way he laughed when you surprised him, how fierce he could be when pressed. The words he spoke over and over in his sleep.

Whatever Nephrite wasn't telling him, it could wait, now they had time. “Just a smudge, eh?” he asked slowly, giving Nephrite a playful shove. “You mean like … a mistake?” Motoki watched Nephrite's eyes narrow in consternation. “Yeah,” he continued, nodding his head. “I can see how the universe might get that idea.”

Nephrite rolled his eyes and Motoki grinned, stepping back over a pile of utensils he'd swept off the counter in a fit of pique. “Since you're back, I think you should get a head start on the chores for today. This place is filthy.” Nephrite smirked and advanced toward Motoki, fully prepared to show him just what sort of 'chores' he planned on doing.

Hours later, the sinking sun cast threads of orange light across the floor to tangle amongst the debris. Nephrite watched Motoki's chest rise and fall in a deep, untroubled sleep, the rays of sunlight catching in his hair and lingering with affection. The bed was warm, the blankets uneven and haphazardly patched. He was beginning to understand what humans meant when they spoke of peace.

He curled up around Motoki, wrapping an arm close about his waist. Motoki gave a contented sigh and pressed back against him, without waking up. Nephrite rested his head against Motoki's shoulder, speaking gratitude across his skin.

“I'm written into the world because you remembered.”

 

 


End file.
